


i'm sorry mama, i fell in love with a fighter

by peacheskeen



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Slight Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-24
Updated: 2015-07-24
Packaged: 2018-04-10 23:00:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4411238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peacheskeen/pseuds/peacheskeen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>on the the road trip across America, Steve Rogers realizes something he should've a long time ago.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i'm sorry mama, i fell in love with a fighter

**Author's Note:**

> it's been a while since i've written anything;; i've been struggling this year with getting ready to move to university and i was just thinking about these two today, so i scribbled something down. c:
> 
> edit: wanted to clean this up a little. hopefully will post something else soon-ish!

They’re running low on cash and motivation. Bucky’s trail has gone cold– had gone cold two months ago, if they’re willing to admit it– and the dark circles under Steve’s eyes seem to be a permanent part of him.

He realizes this while categorizing his face in the dim light of the bathroom, staring at himself in the mirror. Steve Rogers: thin lips, strong jaw, dark circles. He wonders, in a hazy sort of way, if he’s seeing what other people see– if he is truly on the outside what he is on the inside. Then he wonders if somebody can be a perfect representation of their liver.

Steve smiles tiredly, turning on the sink and letting the cool water run over his scraped up hands. He lets out a small sound as the water seeps into his cuts. It burns.

“You’re going to have permanent scars on your hands, Rogers,” Sam mumbles from the room, “if you keep going the way you are.”

It’s not as if he wants to have somebody beat the shit out of him, it’s just that– well, he’s just on edge. Steve chuckles,

“They’ll heal.”

They always heal. And maybe that’s the problem. Or maybe that’s the solution to his problem. He drifts on it like he always does, lingers on his thoughts for a bit, and then sweeps them under the rug for later.  _Later, Rogers. Later._

“No one will want to hold your hand like that.” Sam says, the words slurring together.

Steve hears the blankets on the bed shifting, and then feet padding across the room, the scrape of a chair across the floor, Sam’s exhale as he sits down.

“It’ll be fine.” He says it for the little part of Sam that always worries. 

 _See, Sam? I can feel your gaze, even if you think I don’t see it._  Steve stares at his blood mixing with the water, watches as it washes down the drain.

“I’m sorry, Steve.”

God, did Sam always sound that tired? It’s barely afternoon and he sounds exhausted.

Steve shuts off the water, and digs around in the first aid kit for bandages. It’s a little pointless, he won’t have the cuts come tomorrow, but he still wants it. _You’re still human, Steve._

He hums tunelessly as he steps out of the bathroom into the bedroom. It’s a low point for the two of them: the wallpaper peeling off of the wall, the dusty carpet, the curtains that hang crookedly, the squeaky beds, the smell of cigarettes and alcohol in the air.

But they’ve had worse, been in worse, and it’s not all bad. It’s the other thing that gets to Steve: laying low and waiting for information. Steve wants to go on the road; he’s antsy and looking for a fight– evidenced by his earlier fight at the post office.

He was waiting for Sam to get his letters from his P.O. box. Steve was leaning against the door of the post office, smiling, as he watched people pass by. But when he saw two men harassing a girl, he couldn't help himself. He'll always be the little kid from Brooklyn who is ready to throw his fists at any moment.

Sam says that he's too righteous, Steve likes to think of it as "just." 

He sauntered over, jaw clenched, and asked why the two gentlemen were bothering the young lady.

They didn't take too well to his implication of harassment; at first they were all sorts of apologetic but then one of them threw a punch and then...

Well, it was mild as far as fights go. Couldn’t even be considered a brawl. But it ended with Steve punching a brick wall, and the angry tilt to Sam’s shoulders.

“Are you looking to get our cover blown?” Sam had whispered, his jaw clenched as he stared at the mess on Steve’s hands.

But now, Sam is shuffling through his letters, his shoulders relaxed. Steve walks over to one of the beds and plops down, the hinges protesting his weight. Sam almost smiles when he looks up at Steve, his eyes crinkling with fondness.

“Do you need help?” Sam asks, indicating down at Steve’s hands.

“I’ve got it.”

Steve starts wrapping his fingers, still humming, as he listens to rustle of paper. He does it almost absent-mindedly, keeping his mind from wandering, just focusing on the sensation. Steve gets to his other hand, and smiles at the memory of Bucky wrapping his fingers after a particularly bad fight. He stays in the memory for a bit, and then he starts watching the sunlight play with the shadows on the walls.

For some reason or another, Sam is sitting in direct sunlight, and Steve’s eyes pass over him. Sam, in moments like this, is almost radiant. Steve itches to sketch him, to sketch the beauty of the sun against his skin. He doesn’t usually let himself look at Sam, ( _too dangerous,_  his mind whispers). But now that he’s started, he’s caught.

Steve watches Sam’s hands as they rip open the envelope. He does it a certain way, digging his finger into the side of the of envelope and then dragging it down. He reaches into the hole on the side and pulls out the letter.

 _Sam’s fingers are beautiful,_  Steve thinks, and then unprompted,  _Sam is beautiful._

Sam reads the letter and Steve watches Sam. He’s never watched him before, always had to be on the other side– shifting his shoulders uncomfortably as Sam gazed at him, worriedly. If Sam feels Steve’s gaze though, he doesn’t show it, a small smile growing on his face.

Steve stares, openly then, at the curve of Sam’s lips. But it is then that Sam looks up, locks eyes with Steve. They stare at each other, Sam’s lips dropping open with surprise, and Steve watching him steadily.

It lasts for a moment, Sam’s face betraying his thoughts– and Sam has always been so open, but Steve has never been able to guess what Sam was thinking when he looked at him. Always thought it was worry, but his face is so full of _love._

Sam swallows and breaks his gaze, looking away hurriedly. He rubs a hand across his mouth, and it all clicks together for Steve.

He stands, the bed creaking. Sam snaps his eyes up. He looks terrified.

“Steve–” Sam’s whole body goes rigid, shoulders tense as Steve walks towards him, palms up. 

 _I would never hurt you._  He stops right in front of Sam. The letter falls from Sam’s hands to the floor, the paper stark white against the dull gray of the carpet. Sam clenches his jaw, squeezing his eyes closed.

“Steve, I–”

“Sam.” He sounds impossibly calm, as he gently places one of his hands on Sam’s shoulder,

“Look at me.”

Sam shakes his head, cracking open his eyes, searching Steve’s face for something.

Steve leans down, to do what? He is all movement, fluid, yet it feels like his brain is ten steps behind him. But Sam pushes his hands against Steve’s chest.

“Steve?” His voice is scared, vulnerable. His brown eyes are wide.

“I never realized.” Steve thinks that he probably sounds drunk, breathless and full of wonder.

“Sam, I never could have imagined that you– too– felt–”

“Steve.” Sam sounds absolutely wrecked, the corners of his mouth quirking up hopefully.

And then Steve, God bless him, presses a kiss to Sam’s perfect mouth.  _Oh God._  Sam hesitates, and Steve thinks that maybe he read it all wrong, ruined it all– but then Sam makes a small sound and surges up, wrapping his arms around Steve’s shoulders as he kisses back, sweetly.

They stand there for a moment, Sam leaning up against Steve, on his toes, the two of them crushed together, chest to chest. But then Steve breaks away for air, a slight smile on his face. Sam furrows his brow, pulling at Steve’s shirt, trying to lean up and capture his lips again. Steve shakes his head, grabbing for one of Sam’s hands.

“Come on– why did you–?” Sam says, staring at their linked hands, his lips pursed.

“Guess this means you’ll be the only one who has to hold my hand.” Steve expects Sam to laugh and crinkle his nose with amusement.

But Sam Wilson’s whole face lights up with absolute joy, and he squeezes Steve’s hand gently. Steve can’t help but grin back at him, feeling lighter than he has in weeks. Hope surges up in his chest and  _we’ll make it. We’ll make it._


End file.
